


With Golden String

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fond farewells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Wherein Lady Lyanna bites off more than she can chew and the consequences are grave indeed.AU!
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	With Golden String

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivilovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivilovely/gifts).



> WARNING! This is not a read for the faint of heart - in the sense that this is not at all a comfortable read. You won't find heroes here, strictly speaking, but you will find plenty of villains. A second chapter is in the works, you'll find it on the drive.

“This is insane,” Lyanna warned, her grip on her brother’s arm tightening. “You will be found out and then the both of us will be in a great deal of trouble.” But her warning served for naught, because the boy laughed, assuring her all would turn out well.

“You worry too much.” Benjen’s toothy grin should have set her at ease. He was often silly and childish, that was true, but he was also a very careful boy. “If there’s trouble, you have me to lean on.”

“Just as you have me,” she replied in kind, not wanting him to think any differently. “Yet that does not mean one should actively seek out danger. Benjen, my dear Benjen, you do not need to be a hero. Let the matter run its course.”

“And have it put about that none of the Stark brothers have stood in defence of their father’s bannerman when he was set upon? I think not; we are all children of the pack, are we do?” She loved that in him; she loved it so well that she would not see it tarnished by the likes of their father’s bannerman and his cowardice.

And yet he should learn. “Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?” Her brother shook his head and took her by the hand. Lyanna heart dropped into the pit of her stomach for whatever reason as they stood looking one at another. It would not be long until he stood taller than her. “Then may the gods give your arm strength and guide it well.”

“You see, this is why you are the best of sisters,” Benjen offered, tugging her into a loose hug, a gesture more stranger to her now that they were neither of them children, and comforting all the same. Not one for half-measures, she threw her arms about him and squeezed tight until she heard him protest. There was naught for it but to see him to a safe place so that he might put on his patchwork armour come morning and be about his business. “I had best return to my own tent.”

“Go then.” Aught was not right; that much she could feel in the squeeze of her heart and the queer scent carried upon the wind. Squaring her shoulders, Lyanna watched her brother go. It was the pack that survived, she reminded herself; she would not make a lone wolf of her brother. Not if she could help it.

“Where is Benjen?” Lyanna froze at her brother’s question, feeling rather like a deer caught in a hunter’s trap, which was not at all the thing. Still, she unclenched her lips enough so that she might answer him with as much confidence as she could muster.

“He wished to take a walk before breaking his fast. I told him it would be better to eat first, but he would not listen. But then I–” Brandon held a hand up in understanding and more so to stop her from talking his ears off. As he was known to note quite often, she spoke too much for a man to handle. Given that she was lying straight to his face, Lyanna said no more.

“See to it that the he is not late for the opening joust. As for you, dearest sister, you had best put on your good face and see to it that our guest is made comfortable.” That much she could do, especially if it took her away from the heat of her brother’s stare.

Rising gently, she dusted her hands off on the folds of her skirts and excused herself. Ned gave her a smile by way of answer and continued munching on his cold meat while Brandon merely dismissed her with a nod of the head. Were they home, father would not have permitted as much, but father was not with them and Lyanna supposed it was good for her to see where she stood without the man to back her up and take her side.

She found Howland Reed beneath one of the tall trees with its wide-set crown and abundance of leaves. “You did not come to break your fast with us,” she said as his eyes settled upon her. He was an awfully quiet man; not that Lyanna minded necessarily, it gave her leave to fill the silence as she wished.

“My lady; your brother was kind to invite me, but I could not accept.” She crossed her arms over her chest at his answer and sat herself down upon the ground at his side. Lyanna took the time to consider his words before she made any manner of reply. To do otherwise would be rude.

She did not meet his eyes as she spoke. “So what it is that you wish for? You do not want justice, nor do you seek protection. What do you want of us?”

Howland Reed had no answer for her. He merely stared ahead when she dared look. What to make of that she did not know. It would be smartest, she supposed, to caution her brother yet again. The Crannogman was a kind fellow, she expected; gentle and soft and they had protected him the best they could. It had to be enough.

“Might it not then, be best, if you were to discover what it is you want before you venture away from your home?” She’d not meant to ask such an impertinent question, but the kind of silence he offered made her quite ill with anxiety.

“You’ve the right of it, lady,” the man answered. He stood, turning so that she might face her. “And yet which of us knows what it is they want in truth?”

He left her with those words. 

Benjen shook his head lightly as he seated himself at her side. Lyanna scoffed and jabbed a finger into his side. “I told you not to be late,” she whispered heatedly, hoping that Brandon would keep to his glare and not offer words. “You cannot always do as you please and expect no manner of repercussion for it.”

“I will keep that in mind,” her youngest brother answered in a cheeky voice. And Lyanna found she could not be cross with him, thus she merely settled for apply an expert pinch that might give him some discomfort.

“You little beast,” she muttered.

Benjen disappeared successfully sometime during the middle of the day. Lyanna left him to his preparations as she made her way to the gathering of young lords and knights where her eldest brother stood, congratulating Robert Baratheon. Her approach was noted by Elbert Arryn who beckoned her forth, much at ease acting as a brother might. He put an arm about her waist and pulled her into his side, so as to better speak over the general din.

“You look rather pale, lady. Are you well?” She nodded her head and assured him all was well. “Take heart now; Lord Baratheon has a long night of celebrating ahead of him. So much so, he might even forget all about his betrothed for the time being.” Elbert was kind in his own way.

At long last their interaction was noted and she was tugged from his hold to much protest from the man, all of it taken for a jest.

Bleeding crests decorated the inside of her palm and as she clenched her fists all the harder, the twinge of pain sparking to life yet again. Lyanna winced, but followed the mystery knight’s progress even as the crowd around her cheered. Brandon stood so as to better see and she found herself begging the gods to protect Benjen.

“Well, I’ll be,” the eldest chuckled. “He can’t be fully grown. Looks scrawny too.” Relief coursed through her. He’d not recognised their brother.

A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. Lyanna glanced to the side, eyes meeting Ned’s steady gaze. He leaned in, “Where’s Benjen?”

To say the King was angered by the sudden appearance of the mystery knight was to understate the matter. Rhaegar watched his father rage without turning a hair, which was more than could be said of some of his father’s men. They jumped to assure him the culprit would be apprehended and that the matter would be settled.

Shaking his head at the notion, Rhaegar stood from his seat by the window, the action attracting more than its fair share of eyes. “Such knights are not unheard of,” he spoke, quelling most of the talk about him. His father’s head turned towards him, red-rimmed eyes burning a hole through him with their stare. “The boy’s quarrel seemed to be with those knights he took down.”

“You would have me believe his only objective was that which he stated?” A flash of something stabbed at Rhaegar. He nodded tersely still, hoping that it might suffice. Heavy silence anticipated his sire’s answer and for one brief moment he thought the man saw sense. Just as quickly his hoped were dashed.

A choked sort of laughter sprang from his King’s lips, dark and low, sounding much like brontide to his ears. “How gallant of him.” His irenic attempt had failed. Rhaegar closed his eyes against the wave of fury fighting to break his walls down. He would not bend. “This paragon must be given proper reward,” he disparaged, standing heavily from his seat. The lords and knights forming a circle around him drew back. “You fools; you think to addle me with such words. I will show you the worth of this creature.”

Rhaegar turned away from his father.

Arthur could hardly believe his eyes. The tip of his sword yet lingered at the boy’s throat. “No sudden movements,” he warned, the churning feeling in his gut intensifying. Gods, he couldn’t; he couldn’t possibly bring the child before the madman, and yet, he had to. “Fool of a boy, you should have abandoned it.”

Still clutching a gauntlet to his chest, Benjen Stark shook his head vigorously. “I would never abandon it.” Something in the boy’s eyes shifted. “I am not ashamed of my actions.”

Cocking his head to the side, the knight could not help questioning the sentiment. “Are you willing to stand by them even unto death?”

“Especially unto death.” He was a boy; he knew not what the words meant.

“I would spare you if I could.” He spoke the truth, but more so he spoke his heart. His mind knew all too well that Ashara’s life depended upon his actions and may the Father forgive him, he would always chose to save his sister. The boy’s hands rose ever so gently, wrapping around the blade. He did not squeeze, but kept his hand there.

“As I said, I have no regrets.” The sword lowered.

He’d be lying if he said he was not scared. Benjen held the King’s gaze, nonetheless, as steady as he might. The man seemed to find his predicament extremely amusing. He’d not stop laughing for some time. The Spider, Lord Varys, stood behind the King’s chair, eyes watching the ground. It was only the three of them in the chamber. The abeyance of all sound came after a time. “Tell me, paragon; why should I not have you slain where you stand for this attempt at rebellion?”

“There was no rebellion, Your Majesty.” A fish came down with a loud sound. Benjen jumped, feeling the blood drain from his face. He was determined to say his peace. “The helpless are to be protected and the wronged to be avenged. Is that not what we are taught to do?”

There was something about the man sitting before him; something dreadful. “Is that so?” The King leaned back. “What of your kin here; would they protect you, do you think? Against my wrath?” As a general rule, Benjen considered himself rather smart. In doing so, he rather thought he could see through ploys as well as any man. He thus recognised that he might draw Brandon into the conflict, or even Ned, and they would put their sword arm forth as men oft did. He also understood that was quite possibly the worst thing he might do all things considered.

“Even the weakest among them would. My sister would stand for me should you call her even now.” Lyanna was brave and kind and all the good things a woman might be; most importantly, Lyanna endured. She was best suited.

“That I much doubt; women are fickle. But let us then test this, shall we? Spider, have the sister brought to me.”

She was sitting. She had been sitting for some time, pressing her thumbs together, eyes in her lap upon the digits. She wanted to wail and shriek and call upon Brandon to go out and search for Benjen as well. But Ned was out, searching.

When Ser Dayne approached her, she knew, in her heart of hearts, that the other shoe was about to drop. But he held out his hand, and she gave him hers, listening when he leaned in to whisper to her. And then she was off, skirts hiked, as she ran to the keep. Whether he followed at her pace or went to his own, she knew it not of the knight, for her mind was with her brother and then her body was as well. Her gelid insides did not thaw even when her arms were about her brother in protective hold.

“It was I who rode in the tourney.” Her proclamation was met with faint amusement. “My brother had little to do with it; he merely procured the armour.” She was still breathing hard, her arms two bands of iron about her brother. She had to get him safely back to Brandon.

“Who am I to believe?” the King questioned, appearing much at ease and much amused at the same time. “The boy says he was the knight. You say ‘twas you, lady. Which of you is lying to the King?” Lyanna did not know many things; she was indeed much ignorant in the ways of court protocol, she knew not the dangers of the world and she would admit that most of her knowledge was second-hand, to be had from tales rather than experience. But what she did know, she knew well enough to hold onto stubbornly.

“I am a woman; even if I were of age, I could not have done what must be done.” She raised her chin. “I beg Your Majesty to let my brother go.”

“What an interesting manner to beg. Not at all humble; most supplicants come on their knees.” But she did not kneel. She may have lied, but she did so with good cause. “You are a poor liar, lady. All the same, I shall take you at your word.” Benjen started to protest. “Your brother may return, if he so chooses. You remain.”

But Benjen protested yet again. Lyanna shook her head at him. As long as he was with Brandon, as long as he was safe, she would remain, for she sensed there was more at play that she had thus far seen.

“You admire her.” It sounded like an accusation. Rhaegar feared monsters, but not as a child did, for their grotesque forms and twisted faces; he feared monsters for what they wrought. “She is young and pretty and so very innocent, is she not?” His skin crawled at those words and Rhaegar refused to answer. “Do you want her then?”

He wished he might inspire a likewise sentiment some day as she had in him when he’d first seen her, struggling under the weight of a nearly insensible body. His lips twisted downwards. “She ought to be returned to her brothers.”

“At a price.” Such webs his father weaved. Rhaegar clenched his teeth. He could take the blow; he could take it better than the girl ever could.

“I will pay your price.” He would come to regret it before long, he dared say.

Much sympathy came about in the wee hours of the morning, such as when the sun had not yet risen and the darkness had yet to lift its veils. But even in the soft torchlight, framed in the narrowness of a moonbeam, the feeling was tainted with desire. Not of the sort to light fires; Rhaegar knew lust, it was not lust. He wanted to peel back all layers until he understood why Lady Lyanna had placed herself in danger, had refused to back away and had denied any of her brothers the chance to save her. And most of all he wanted to believe there were other like her, that her sacrifice was not unique, if not in form, then certainly in its underlying principles. She pointed him towards the shield. “There it is. As promised.” 

He retrieved it. “Retract your words.” His counsel was met with patient understanding and staunch refusal. “He does not wish to punish you, lady, but to destroy you altogether.” He took her by the shoulders, the shield falling at their feet. “Recant. I will protect your brother.”

“I will not.” She did not bristle. Neither did she push him away. “You are a dragon, Your Grace; dragons may prosper on their own. But in the long dark winter, it is the pack that survives.”

It took him a moment to reply. “None may prosper alone.” None but the mad it would seem.

He took up the shield once more and strapped it to his back. It was the lady he placed upon his horse and he walked alongside them, carrying his burden as he led the beast away from the trees and the moonbeams. He spoke no more and tried not to think too deeply about the fate she was bent upon following. He felt her hand come upon his at one point, her soft skin slightly cold. He was not alone after all and thus did not need to act as though he were.

Rhaegar looked up at her. She cocked her head to the side and smiled; a far too optimistic gesture.

“How could you?” Brandon demanded. He looked from his brother to his sister and then back again. “Do you not realise the danger you have put yourselves in?” His voice was low; quite strange for Brandon. All the same, Lyanna shivered; she could not like her brother’s approach just then. “That man is mad; there is no safety to be found at his court.” He fell back upon his seat. “What am I to tell father?”

“The truth will do.” Ned stood, having spoken for the first time since their reunion. “It will do.”

Well immured within the narrow space of the wheelhouse, Lyanna resolved to keep her fears at bay. The King was mad, his son seemed powerless for the moment, as all men must be when their wives and children were threatened and she, Lyanna supposed, was to tolerate the stares thrown her way.

In her lap lied wilted blue roses. A very telling gesture, she dared say, to offer her such flowers. She wondered if Benjen might have won them for her had he managed to keep his ruse undiscovered. She smiled down at the flowers, touching a fingertip to the shrivelled blue petals. They were beautiful flowers, seldom in bloom and not long in such a state either. She wondered how many fingers had bled from the bite of the thorns which once adorned the stems.

The wheelhouse drew to a halt.

Elia drew the shawl tighter about her shoulders, the glare of her dark eyes rutilant in alpenglow of the dying sun. “When he is done with her, he will turn to me,” she reasoned, not at all wrong in it. The fear rolled off of her in waves. They crashed against him and Rhaegar wished he might anchor her, that she would not drift so far that he could not reach her. He wished a great many deal of things, but could not see how. “You just had to look at her, did you not?”

He had to, for such deeds deserved attention and careful documentation. He’d inscribed the woman’s courage in the stone of his own heart. Just as he now did. “Take heart; not all is yet lost.” His wife looked at him then, wide-eyes doleful.

“You may find comfort in such words if you wish.” She moved away then. Rhaegar allowed her the space and stood where he was, not sure of what he ought to do. Somehow, someway, he needed to have his wife and children freed from under his sire’s tyranny and yet he could see no path that would not lead to their death.

He would not quarrel with Elia over the matter. She might yet aid and he could ill afford to turn her away from the cause completely. Her brother tarried already and would do yet so unless she encouraged his interference. For the time being he could do little but endure.

Disgust swamped him. Could the man not conceive of anything not base and corrupt at its core? He supposed not. “Well, what shall you do?” his father demanded, moving his piece on the board. “If you want her, she is yours; if you do not, I am sure we could find a few willing men.”

Rhaegar knew men. He was a man as they. Men were beasts, and the worst kind of beasts for most did not even know it, and did little to shield the world from their ferocity. “She is a good, kind soul. Why can you not leave her be?”

The King harrumphed. “There is no such thing.” He won yet another piece. “I will certainly torment her more if she is not yours. I can promise that.”

“Have you no decency, no shred of mercy?” He didn’t. Rhaegar already knew as much. “Don’t touch a hair on her head.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Gods; he did not think he could stop the rage for much longer.

“Because she is under my protection.” He’d figured out the game and he supposed he must play. Rhaegar moved his own piece, trapping his sire’s dragon. A self-satisfied smile appeared on the man’s face.

She seemed to understand without the need for words, but then Rhaegar supposed she must have heard some of his sire’s vile plans. How could she not? The songbirds around them twittered happily, blind to the suffering below them.

Lyanna did not look into his face; he supposed he should have expected that. He was more surprised by her equanimity though.

The burn between her thighs added to the throbbing of her head. Lyanna wished she might ride a horse, might be even ride herself to exhaustion. Or better yet, fall from its back and break her neck. But she could not; not for any other reason that in her most secret heart Lyanna had wished for such a touch from those very hands. And yet she had hurt him as surely as he’d cut her.

In her mind she’d thought his eyes filled with ardour, but it had been warmth. He’d not been looking upon a woman when he had looked. There had been nothing of sensualism in it. But it had been forced there in the end, the ideal forced into a crooked shape. She could no more wash away the memory from him than she could wash it from herself. She had always been attracted to him in that way a woman was attracted to a man; never had she doubted that.

It both humbled her and saddened her that she had been an icon to him. Lyanna knew not many things; but she had discovered at long last how a man loved a woman and she dared say the pain of it was an almost too steep price. Her hands were brought together in her lap. She had looked him in the eyes after and wished she’d not. There was such a thing as too much knowledge.

In the bowels of the Red Keep stood Maegor’s Holdfast. Lyanna looked to the bars restricting her escape and sighed. Rhaegar had kept his distance, she supposed with the best intentions, but so had all others. She was not a creature much in need of conversation, but Lyanna had never truly been alone. With Brandon she quarrelled, with Ned she took long walks and with Benjen she played. But in the chambers afforded her there was not another soul to be seen. She eyed the bed with some apprehension. Sleep would not come soon.

She determined to be to him a stone, a mere object for the time wherein he was forced to be with her. Lyanna had her pride; she told herself that indeed he had his own and she could not abuse it, nor him by pretending he did what he did with anything other than deeply, troubling disdain. After all, she might look in his eyes again and see it.

Thus when Rhaegar came to her, she had naught to say and naught to show. In fact, she closed her eyes and shut them even tighter when she heard him call her name. There was only one movement on her part, when she felt his hand upon her thigh. She trembled. A weary sort of sound came from him, a deep sound. She wanted to wrap her arms about him and offer him comfort, but how could she when it was not anything else but her that caused him pain.

Her limbs listened well enough until they were one flesh, but thereafter her body betrayed her in the lowest manner possible. Stone, it turned out, did feel, deep within its core and from within the feeling wormed its way without, leaving her no choice but to face her own weakness.

Lyanna was not certain when she had begun to sob. She simply found herself in tears, her arms wrapped tightly around the man. She did not know what to say, so said nothing as he held onto her in a manner most comforting. She heard words but could not put meaning to them, thus did not listen.

All that mattered to her was that she was warm and she was not alone. What would come after, she could not say. But might be she was the better for it. Lyanna kept on crying.

Somehow amid all the turmoil she fell asleep.

When she woke, she was not alone. With a start, she sat up, looking upon the figure sleeping at her side. She knew it was wrong in her to find joy in such a moment, doubly so when she considered the world without the chamber. She woke him with gentle shakes and begged his leave to be alone, knowing that even if she did not feel the better for it, he would. In the end he would, she hoped, even as she steeled herself against what she saw in his eyes.

He could return to his wife and have comfort of her. 

Once the door had shut, she curled inwards into herself and gathered some of the furs so she might better cover her face. Tears she had no more to cry; those had run dry. But very much like a pressure the grief built in her chest and built itself yet higher until she was quite sick.

She’d not been broken with brutality, but she’d been broken all the same and her mind floundered even as it searched for some comfort in the bleakness. Even her heart was silent, leaving only just Lyanna in the grip of the torment.

She could not weep.

Hunger gnawed at her stomach. It had been at least two days since she had eaten. There had been enough watered wine in the carafe that portioned out it had lasted her until that point. But all the liquid in the word could not quell her body’s grumbling. All the same, she told herself, she had to endure.

It was some manner of punishment, she perceived, might be for having driven the Prince away. The King would be twisted enough to punish any kindness in her, she knew well and might be every kindness in his son as well.

She placed a hand upon her middle and hummed softly. A different manner of rumble came then.

“This is not sickness, this is pure evil.” Had Rhaegar not been quite deep in his cups, he would have managed to agree. As it was, he stared at his wife through bleary eyes. “That is why I told you to leave matters be. Better to hurt her a little now and save her a lot of pain down the road.”

“She asked me to leave.” The problem was not that she had asked; indeed nor even that she had drawn away from him. Rhaegar had not expected to find her half as warm as she had been and, damn it all, he knew he deserved nothing of her compassion. “I am not that man,” he said in an almost bleat at the look upon Elia’s face.

“Bruises heal; flesh knits back together. A hand to hold is more precious than any pain you may spare her now.” She sat down by him. “If I could do it all over again, I should never pick you again. No crown is worth this.”

He chuckled grimly. “Only death may part us now.” 

“A husband and a nice keep, somewhere away from all of this; I should love that beyond anything.” She took him by the hand. “For the girl’s sake, you have to be that man. And when the time is right, strike hard, strike hard and strike without mercy.” Elia stood, her once slim frame outlined by the soft light coming from behind her. “I fear I must lie down now; the little one is quite active.” 

She left him to his drink, for what else could she say that had not been said?

It was the King that came to her. Lyanna had backed as far as she could into the wall behind her and was trying her best not to shake, what with the maddening hunger and her poor sleep and the needling pain in her lower middle. She glared at the man, but he seemed in a chipper mood and even beckoned in a servant with a laden tray.

“You must be hungry.” She would have given some manner of retort had he not pressed into her hand a piece of pastry. “Have a bite. I confess I quite forgot about it for a while there. But you see, lady, I have written your father. And if you are well behaved, you may even see him when he arrives.”

She looked at the offering. If she chewed carefully, she would not even choke on it, she thought. And there was great need for nourishment, she considered, in her condition. Lyanna brought it to her lip and bit down. A sharp cry of pain rose through the chamber, a wail so loud the door behind her opened.

A horrified Jaime Lannister rushed forth. “Spit it out.” His voice was clear over the pain and she did her best. Warm blood dripped down her chin and the glass stabbing in her tongue rolled. She sobbed with the sheer pain and shrank back from the hand grabbing at her jaw. “Keep still.” She heard desperation in his voice and somehow managed to comply. Shards were tugged free from her flesh, thrown away with haste. Tears scalded her cheeks. She wanted to aid as well, but the young knight pushed her hand away. “Just keep still.” All the while the King watched the unfolding scene as a child might a mummers’ play. 

When finally Ser Jaime was done and she was free of shards, the man clapped his hands as though in admiration of their performance. He stood. Lyanna pulled back so hard that Ser Jaime stumbled with her.

“How gallant of you, ser; to aid a woman in need.” She swallowed a mouthful of blood. “Might be the lady has charmed you.”

Lyanna knew little enough; she knew rage though. And when she saw it upon Ser Jaime’s face, a great fear took over her. She lunged for the King with a pleading cry, falling to her knees. She could not speak for the pain of her cuts but she hoped that somehow he might be softened.

A kick was her only answer.

Rhaegar was unable to bring himself to see her. He could not. He simply could not.

The Princess had given birth to a son. The King, in an exceptional mood it would seem, had decided that such called for a celebration. That her father’s arrival should coincide with that was fortuitous as far as Lyanna was concerned, for it meant that she had her chance.

Thus when food was brought to her, she did her very best while slamming into the servant, spilling all manner of grease and oil onto the man. The end of the hall was fairly near and her body, gaining its energy from frantic fear, carried her down the stairs until her foot slipped. She fell and tumbled down, the rattle of chainmail behind her. Hands grabbed at her and lifted her up.

They were careful hands, their touch firm but not unkind. She found herself staring into the face of Ser Dayne. “Are you–“ He would not speak a word of her attempt, she knew. He hadn’t the heart. But he did not mean to turn a blind eye to her blatant attempt either.

“Please. My father.” Her voice sounded rusty. A pain flared to life in her side. She must have knocked it against an edge when she was falling. When the knight had her on her feet she yelped. It seemed she had done her ankle a bad turn as well.

“You were a guest in my home once, Your Majesty,” the Wolf of Winterfell spoke. He was a man of middling height, more akin to his middle son, gaunt and looking to be old beyond his years. “You have been my king for many years and I a faithful vassal for just as long. I humbly beg Your Majesty to return my daughter.

He liked it best when they did beg. “Oh, is this where she learned to beg? I can see it now.” The man before him had a steady, dark gaze, more storm cloud than clear skies. “She is a defiant, wretched girl; would not accept a helping hand offered to her even if it could well save her.”

He was not at all astonished when the Warden of the North knelt. “I beg you, Sire, as a subject, as a father; give my daughter to my care.”

“I will not do that. But you may see her if you wish.” It was more than he’d been allowed in his captivity. But then, Aerys supposed his heart was not quite as hard as Lord Darklyn’s.

The tightening in her father’s jaw gave his feelings away as nothing else could. Lyanna was struggling, however, not to cry out in pain, so that she offered no words to him. Trembling hands reached for her, touching the top of her head before they cupped her face. “Why?”

“The pack survives.”It was with great effort that she gave him the words. Speaking pulled on her wounds and she winced. A little whimper came and she could not hide it. Her father looked down and she did as well, but saw only the folds of her skirts.

He saw something else altogether for she was taken up in his arms. From a height she too could see the blood.

“Please, no. Please.” She wasn’t speaking to her father.

Her sire kicked open the door and barked at whoever stood on the other side to bring the maester. Lyanna meantime felt the wetness slide down her thighs and knew that no maester could help her. If ever she’d wanted the lone wolf to survive, it was in that moment.

Cersei Lannister looked at her brother. Ordinarily, the plight of any woman other than herself would leave her cold, especially given Lady Lyanna’s position. “I once thought that I would wed the Prince and be his wife and live a wonderful life at his side.” Her brother’s head shot up. “As I once thought valiant knight with a good cause would come out victorious against the monsters in the end.” She stood. “But I now see that men are but beasts. Father wishes me to wed Elbert Arryn. And I wish it more and more every day. At least Elbert Arryn is man enough to protect what is his.”

“You don’t understand.” Cersei shook her head. That was an agreement as much as it was a denial. Jaime must have known. But he spoke no more.

“Poor girl; she is pitiful.”

Elia looked from one man to the other. Her mind had been made up long ago as to what path she should take. “I am going, for if I do not go now, than I shall be swallowed by the darkness as well. I was promised a husband, a home.” She gestured to the chamber. “This, this is a night terror.”

Her brother nodded. “All shall be made ready.”

Her uncle was a tad more hesitant in his response. “If that is your will.”

“An army, the aid of my land, my life even; I would have given any and all of those. But my daughter was never part of it.” Rhaegar did not enjoy sobriety. In fact, he much preferred the wine-induced night terrors he obtained in his attempts to get blindingly drunk. “And yet here she is and you,” the lord said with a cold glint in his eyes, “will pay for that.”

“Already am,” he breathed out.

“Not yet.” The Northerner lord grabbed the wine pitcher on the table and broke it upon the ground. “My daughter has not the aid of wine. She has neither friend, nor protector here.”

“The King–“

“Insists she will not be returned and that should I refuse to disavow all claims to her than he shall kill her.” Rhaegar jumped from his seat, halfway out the chamber before the man spoke again. “You are all that is left for her. But know this, the North remembers.”

The Spider patted the Princess’ hand ever so gently. “It is to be hoped you find happiness, my lady, and that your days are blessed.” Dorne’s withdrawal would precipitate matters, to be sure. Varys saw the woman off with much equanimity. Truth be told, she was not as decisive as her mother; a creature of comfort more so, but with enough political knowledge to understand that her interests could be secured with a departure much easier. He had to admire that. Varys hummed low in his throat.

Now for the body; he had just the one in mind.

The feverish woman was speaking nonsense as far as Rhaegar could tell. He did his best to feed her more of the honeyed water, as per the maester’s instructions, but it was an arduous task, mad doubly difficult by his own unsteady hands.

It was so that news of Elia’s escape found him. Her brother, having returned with charred body in tow, was promising retribution against the carelessness of the Kingsguard. His relief was immeasurable when he heard. At least one soul was free of the torture.

Oberyn came to Lady Lyanna’s chambers with anger and much noise and with a small vial. Rhaegar did not need to question him to know what was within. All the same, he took it and put it away. It was for Lyanna to decide what she would do. When she woke.

If she woke.

“Dorne is not in a position to offer anymore aid. The North seethes and thus stew its allies as well. Lord Lannister is willing to wed his daughter to Arryn’s heir. You see, Your Grace, there is nothing for it now.” He did see. He saw very well indeed that he had fallen straight into his father’s trap; that whatever had once been there to tie the bonds of family, it was long gone. That he may have, indeed, lost his father a long time ago and his sheer incapacity had been the only obstacle.

“Then we shall do without them. See to the pyromancers.” The madman would have taken the whole of King’s Landing with him if he could.

Rhaella placed the dagger in his hands. “Perhaps we are beyond atonement,” she said, her voice soft, “but all the same this must be done. I am grieved to have brought you forth for such a task.” He supposed he was as well. But then it was no more than he deserved.

Young Jaime Lannister sat upon the steps of the Iron Throne, looking up at him. The blood pooling a few feet away from a prostrate body crept closer and closer towards them. Not that they themselves were not covered in blood. “It seems we shall not die this day, Your Grace.” The pyromancers had been won over it seemed. That was just as well. “What do we do, with–“ The young man trailed off, nodding at the corpse.

“Feed it to the carrions.”

The furs of her lap moved with the rush of a gust of wind. “I may go home then?” She didn’t know why she was asking precisely. Even if she did go home, she was not the same Lyanna. Eyeing the King she awaited his answer.

“If you wish it.” But he offered no more and she could not judge an answer on so little.

“And if I should be selfish? I may well wish for your life, have you considered that?” He drew something from his sleeve then and handed it to her.

“I am told it is called the Strangler.” Rapists hanged; traitors lost their head; men like Rhaegar were poisoned. “The choice is in your hands.” She took it from him.

“What if I say I want to be queen of the realm?” She held his gaze. “You’ve an heir; even if I can have no more that will do.”

“What do you want? Truly?” What could she say to that? “I will give you a crown and my name, for all it is worth, if you will have them.”

“That will do for now.” She was not ready for more. Yet she had to cling to something. 

“How can you even consider it?” Lyanna pondered her brother’s question as Brandon paced in front of her. “You ought to come home to us, your family.”

“Very well, and then what; sit in the dark and lick my wounds? Wounds that I know will not heal?” She refused. “This is all I can bring to the family. If you take this from me, am I to live in shame forever?”

“Shame?” His voice was loud enough that she jumped and drew away. Brandon knelt in front of her. “You are blameless and if there is any shame, you need not carry it. I am your brother; I should have protected you.”

“I lied. I lied to the King; even knowing it could lead to trouble. I’d been banking on the fact that daughters of great houses are not brutalised as a general rule.” She reached out for her brother’s hands. “Worse yet I lied to myself. For you see, I did want the Prince. It was the manner of it that I protested to.” She smiled a sad sort of smile. “I will stay here. And atone, if I can. Tell father that for me.”

Lyanna knew some things. And she knew that she was still as selfish as she had ever been. She did not want half-measures, but wholes. And as such, she had chosen. Brandon seemed to understand, for he stood and leaned in to press a kiss upon her forehead. “Do not think you have seen the last of me.”

He reacted to her as a man would. As much as any man would, she supposed. Lyanna regarded him with some curiosity. That he had come at all was indeed brave of him. “Tell me something, Your Majesty,” she began, very much aware of the tension within the chamber, “have I any value in your eyes now?” His brow furrowed. “It is not a trick question. I believe I was an icon and then a misfortune. Am I now a burden?”

“You are my wife.” She looked away, pain blooming in her chest, How attuned to her he had to be to sense it, she did not know. Yet sense it he did. “I mean it in the most prosaic sense. But more so I mean it as Rhaegar saying the words to Lyanna.” 

She sniffled softly and flinched when he touched her. “What manner of monster would be glad for his ill-begotten spoils?” She relaxed somewhat at that. “The Prince could not love Lord Stark’s daughter. Surely you must see that.”

“And Rhaegar can?”

“Rhaegar always loved Lyanna, from the moment he saw her struggling to carry the weight of an injured man upon her shoulders.” She understood then, with startling clarity, that she had been wrong. She’d been trying to twist love into passion, in her own way as bad as the madman had been.

“I am going to try.” She clarified a moment later, “to love.”

“We’ve only time now.”

Lyanna knew some things. She still had much to learn.

**Author's Note:**

> While this is primarily a gift for ivilovely (I know, ripping hearts out is not much of a gift per se, but still, don't look the gift horse in the mouth), it also serves as a bit of a more formal farewell. I am hoping with the drive link posted here permanently, I will have placated mostly everyone and there will be no more need for questions.
> 
> [ DRIVE ](https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/1YsG_XB4p7fQhSJ98R90HGQEcmBGKafmc)
> 
> Also, yes, I do know the story is a mess.


End file.
